“My uncle died, My Daddy did too, Paralyzed by the pain, I can barely move, My nephew gone, My heart is torn, Sometimes I look to the sky, Ask why I was born, My faith in God, Every day is hard, Every night is worse, That’s why I pray so hard” Welcome to the Jungle
I have in irrational fear of flying. More than the actual height, I fear the idea of what could happen should something go wrong while at such a high altitude. It’s a fear of falling… suddenly, without warning.
That’s how I feel knowing my brother’s gone. Every day I relive hearing the news of his death, I plan the immediate trip to AZ, I scour to memorialize his life in 2.5 days, and I land on the thought of his cold body beneath my warm hand. The interval of this memory has shortened from whole day grieving to short 5 minute spurts throughout the day. The broken body outline in white chalk where I landed sprinkled with fairy dust, electrocuted into motion: a zombie-like reincarnation remains.
I go through the motions but my whole body is numb.
It’s hard to determine the worse part of this experience, but my hate for everyone, the anathema of my character, borders on the top 5 things.
I don’t give two flying shits about anything and I’m questioning my purpose for being.
Yesterday while waiting on my lost luggage and living on the bare minimum from Delta Airlines, I laid my head on a softened hotel pillow, my last murmur to God: Heavenly Father, should you choose not to wake me up tomorrow, I wouldn’t be mad at all.
The ache of a tired soul often hides behind a wooden smile.
My last years of high school I lingered in a depressed state making daily plans of how I was going to kill myself. I debated between a tragic car crash, pills, a gun, and a whole mess of other dramatic scenarios. I knew though that I was gonna die about 32-33. My brother died at 32 on the eve of his 33rd birthday.
Grandma would say don’t speak of death lest it creep up on you; I’ll let you ponder that irony.
I can’t forgive myself for being a poor sister to my brother. I can’t forgive myself for not praying for him more. I can’t forgive myself for thinking of these great ways to help him but never taking action. I can’t forgive myself for him being gone and living with the regret of never telling him “I Love You” more.
This is the forgettable story of my short life: An amazing visionary without a solid plan. My legacy lies in boards filled with visions with no proof of my existence.
His absence is the validation of my failure on the only thing on which I stood firmly: my family. The pride of my family bond has gotten me through many a desperate time. A rocked foundation shakes even the firmest hand.
Nothing really matters anymore. I’m not sure I want to write anymore. Not sure I want to work anymore. Not sure I want friends. I’m teetering in every decision.
I just want to curl in bed and cry. Life is a freaking rollercoaster until it drops and I’m wallowing in a bottomless pit. It’s funny that though my life feels like it’s stopped, other people’s life keeps going. An object in motion stays in motion, at rest stays at rest.
I can understand people who turn to drinking, drugs, sex in order to dilute their thinking with immediate sensory overload. Like a kid with a paper cut I just want someone to hold me while I cry, wash away the blood, and give me a sense of home. I feel like I have nowhere to go; nowhere to run to escape the musings of my mind.
This may be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to deal with and clearly I’m not handling it well.
Readers: Do you ever feel like you’re going through the motions? Any regrets? Things you plan to change?
